A Day of High Exposure
Third pitch
We paused on the ledge, resting in the shadow of the vast overhang, drinking Gatorade, examining the view. A couple of photographs immortalized a moment already burned into our memory.
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| The author enjoys a drink before starting the final pitch (above) while Mike (below) waits patiently to be relieved of all the gear the author made him retrieve on the previous pitch; behind him, the intimidating overhung headwalls where the Canadians were calling in French to disturb the pigeons. |
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Another leader, hot on our heels, came onto the ledge - an intrusion. I offered her the use of our slings to clip in. Then, resigned to their presence, but not wanting the pressure of their waiting, I let them go before us. They disappeared around the corner, above.
The temperature dropped, and I regretted the lightness of my clothing. Mike insisted I wear his sweatshirt. I tried to turn it aside - after all, he'd be belaying for a while during my lead, when I'd be warm, but he wouldn't let me. I stopped shivering after that.
Time to rack up again, while I was examining the slope leading up to the overhang. I knew this way well as a second. As a leader, my perspective was altered. It wasn't a matter of whether I could climb it, but a matter of whether I could climb it and protect it. The pro looked thin for the first section. A fall here, with the ledge so large and so close, would be a ground fall.
I moved up onto the insecure friction of the first step. Here, I felt the first real pang of the climb. I was afraid. I could back out now, walk along the GT Ledge to an easier climb. I felt the forces of fear multiplying in a positive feedback loop. I had to squelch it now. I had to move before it dominated me. I stepped down and composed myself. Then I started again.
I was up seven or eight feet then, and I wanted some pro, but there were only tiny thin cracks. I wanted pro to the right to avoid rope drag once I'd gone around the ceiling. But there was nothing for at least a few more moves on thin edges. I looked to the left. Just a thin vertical crack. Maybe enough for a micronut, enough to ease my nerves. I stepped over to it and brought out the nut, but when I looked into the crack, I saw a spider crouched within.
"Come on, get out of there," I muttered. "I don't want to have to squish you." I nudged it with the nut. It tried to crouch further back. "Go!" I nudged it from below. "If you don't move, you're dead." It crawled slowly toward the upper margin of the crack. I slipped the micronut in its place.
With that clipped, I climbed up a little higher, to where I could get a bigger cam in the horizontal seam. Then I sighed. "Feeling better now," I told Mike.
"You're looking great," he encouraged. It always helped, even when I knew he was helping my morale on purpose.
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| The author tries to convince the spider to let him use the crack for a micronut. Above him is the enormous High-E roof. |
A few more moves and I was near the edge. Time for the Volkswagen cam. The huge blue cams slipped sweetly into the space below the ledge plate. The edge of the roof was above. I knew what was coming next.
Crouched like a prisoner in a tunnel, I traversed the final steps to the edge, clinging to a hold on the ledge below the roof. The rock dropped away beneath me to the trees two hundred feet or so below. There's a thin edge that must be stepped on with an extended foot, while leaning under and around the oppressive rock above. I made the beginning of that move, peering like a child up the wall above, searching for the piton I knew must be there, and not finding it. I reached up high - there wasn't going to be a second choice now, I was committed to go.
Up around the edge was a layback flake. I found it, pulled it and swung around in one smooth movement. Now I was on the wall. I saw the piton, but it was much further than I expected. Up a few moves on the faintly overhanging holds to the piton.
As I tried to clip the piton, I found myself locked off and tiring fast. I looked down at the distant cam, rope threaded between my legs. Beyond, the forest canopy. I was ten feet or so above the cam. It would be a long, swinging fall of twenty feet right into the point of the arete. The force on the cam might explode the plate under which it was wedged. I would certainly smash into the Directissima wall. It would hurt.
"You're solid in the grade," I insisted. "You climb ten. Relax. Think." I leaned back off the holds, straight-armed. The muscle tension slackened. I slipped the quickdraw into the loop of the piton.
Now the most enjoyable climbing began. The holds were big, and the terrain overhung enough to be challenging. I leaned this way and that with the dynamics of the pitch, savoring it. I didn't want to move too fast. This was the classic pitch, after all. But it was so intuitive as to require less thought than action. I couldn't believe how good it felt. There were more pitons. I placed a cam between two of the pitons for backup. The ground wove a tapestry far below as I moved fluidly, rope forgotten. I placed a big nut to protect the exit, and I paused for a final look down. "I've done High-E!" I thought. But then I rigidly supressed the exultation. I wasn't off belay yet, and I couldn't get cocky.
I made the final move, mantling onto a plateau of white marble glowing faintly blue under the late afternoon sky. I staggered across to the boulders, placed and clipped into a cam.
Then I yelled for joy.
"Off belay!"
As always, the most time-consuming part of the lead was setting up to belay the second. I knew how Mike might feel on his first time through the crux, so I wanted him secure; and, under any circumstances, it was my responsibility to plan for the possibility he might fall. I backed up the belay with several cams.
At last, I screamed his last name out into the open air; then "You're on!" I tugged on the rope as a last confirming signal. I heard him call back, faintly "Climbing", and then the slack in the rope. I took him in.
I could feel his movements through the rope. He moved forward steadily, pausing to remove the protection. Then I felt him step out and retreat. Once more, then.
"That's amazing!" his voice echoed faintly from far below. "I can't believe it. That's the greatest... Never mind, I tell you when I get up!" He started climbing again.
As he approached, I could hear him breathing. Then his hand moved over the edge, searching. Moments later, his face rose against the sky. He looked very tired, as I must have looked on my first second of this route. "How's it going?" I asked. He started to say something, then gasped "In a minute... it's not over yet." He finished the mantle and stood, breathing hard. A little unevenly, he joined me at the belay. I offered him a seat and took him off.
"That... was the best climb I've ever had," he said. Mine too. Maybe not the hardest, but definitely the best.